The Fire Wolves

by Tim Lebbon

Losing, he could not accept.

  “Son of a bitch!” he hissed, rolling across the remains of the rug and kicking out with his hooves.

  The fire wolf rose on all fours and reformed, glancing at him almost dismissively before leaping at Carlotta.

  Hellboy had a flash of what could happen in the next few seconds: if he was too slow, the intruder would grasp Carlotta to its bosom; her hair would smolder first, then her clothes would ignite, and finally her skin and flesh would start to melt. And he would have lost before he even knew what he was fighting. Another Esposito tragedy, reading to be marked down in that old book in the basement . . . except that this one had witnesses.

  And that was why after Carlotta, the thing would turn its fires upon Franca and him.

  That all occurred to him in a blink, and a heartbeat later he was launching himself across the room at Carlotta. He landed and flicked out his hand, knocking her from her feet just as the fire wolf scorched through the air where she had been standing. It washed against the window like a wave striking a beach, spreading, rippling then retreating back into its old shape.

  Carlotta landed, Hellboy heaved himself over her, and the thing came one more time. But this time, he’d seen something that might just help.

  He smashed the table legs, then swung his hand back as the vase fell from the table. He caught it just right; the vase shattered against his knuckles, sending six beautiful roses and several pints of water showering into the fire wolf’s face.

  If that hadn’t worked, Hellboy would have been at a loss. But whatever supernatural bastard this thing might be, it also seemed to obey some earthly laws as well. And fire did not like water.

  It howled and hissed, steamed and spat, and then flung itself at the window. The already weakened glass cracked and shattered under the heat, and the creature fell out, tumbling three floors to the ground below.

  Hellboy stood quickly and went to the window, burns stinging across his body, skin stretched. He grabbed the window frame, knocking out more glass, and leaned out, looking down at where the fire wolf had fallen. He was just in time to see it blazing across the garden, leaving a trail of burnt foliage in its wake. The living plants gave out thick gray smoke as they died.

  “You okay?” he asked Carlotta. The girl had crawled across to Franca and she lay shivering on the floor, hugged up against her cousin. Franca seemed to have fallen unconscious from the pain. He knew he should stay, but . . .

  “Two minutes,” he said, then he jumped from the window.

  He landed hard, grunting as air was knocked from his body. He started running, following the path of scorched and dead plants the thing had left across the garden and around the corner of the house. No sign of the dogs, for which he was glad. In seconds he reached the boundary wall. The resplendent bougainvillea was dried and stick-like where the creature had flamed right over the top, and Hellboy jumped, scrabbling up and swinging over the wall. He landed in the alley close to the garden gate by which they had entered, and looking down the narrow path and steps he could see the air shimmering from the heat of the fleeing fire wolf. He ran, pumping his arms, hissing in pain as his coat rubbed against the burnt parts of his skin.

  At a junction of the path he looked left and right, heard a startled scream some distance to the left, and went that way. Soon there was another junction at the corner of three buildings, and here there was no sign of which way the thing had gone. Washing overhung two of the twisting, shaded alleys, none of it burnt, so he took the third, turning corners, descending steps towards the city’s main thoroughfare and the harbor. He passed a little old lady sitting on the steps outside an open wooden door.

  “You seen a fire demon come this way?” he asked. The woman looked up at him with milky cataract eyes, hands raised to show she did not understand. Hellboy didn’t have time to try his shaky Italian.

  He ran on some more, reaching a small square with a fountain at its center. There were five routes leading out from here, and none of them offered up any immediate clues. He might be lucky once or twice, but he needed much more than that right now. Besides, he figured the flower vase had probably worn out his luck for the day.

  A small group of tourists entered the square, one of them squealed, and then cameras flashed at him. A fat man asked for his autograph.

  Hellboy cursed and began retracing his steps. He smelled singed things in the air, and he wondered whether the scent came from him.

  He climbed the garden wall again, and this time, the dogs were waiting for him, having apparently forgotten their obvious fear of the burning thing. They came close as soon as he landed, alternately growling and whining, uncertain at this strange man who had invaded their domain.

  They crouched down, ready to leap.

  —

  How can I ever escape that? Carlotta thought. She looked down at her burnt cousin, the painful mess of her ankle, the sweat on her beautiful face, and it was all her fault. I led it here . . . it came for me . . . it will come for me again, and next time . . . .

  Carlotta stood and backed away from Franca, as if distance would lessen her guilt. But it did nothing to assuage the responsibility she felt, unreasonable though that may be. She struggled to see sense through her tears, searched for light at the end of her fears, but there was neither sense nor light to be found. Only darkness, lit by the jumping orange flames of the thing that had come for her.

  She could hear shouting elsewhere in the house. Her loved ones, and those who loved her, coming to see what the commotion was.

  When it comes back, they will be here as well. She remembered the thing’s flaming claws closing around Franca’s ankle, and imagined them twisting the heads of small children, burning the gray hair of her older relatives, and pricking burning fingers into her mother’s eyes.

  Carlotta gasped, shivering even in the heat. Hopelessness had made her ice cold. She went and stood at the smashed window, and even sunlight could not ease the chill.

  Then she heard people in the room behind her, frightened and concerned, voices she knew saying things she did not understand, because everything came to this:

  It wanted her.

  Looking down, the ground did not seem so far away.

  —

  Hellboy heard a scream. The dogs glanced back towards the house.

  “Beat it,” Hellboy growled, and both dogs slunk away. Carlotta! Damn it, he should have never left her alone. He ran back across the garden, skidded around the corner of the house and looked up at the shattered window. He saw a pale, old face there, staring straight down, eyes wide with shock. And then the scream came again, and Hellboy stopped when he saw the shape before him.

  Carlotta was splayed on the ground, a pool of blood spreading across the cobbles beneath her broken head. Beyond her stood a middle-aged woman Hellboy had never seen, squeezing her face so tightly that her features distorted and made the third scream sound very far away.

  He went to Carlotta and knelt by her side, aware of the shouts and calls coming from inside the house, and sensing also the other people rushing to gather around. But he only had eyes for the girl. He’d seen enough dead people to know that she was one too, but still he went through the motions, blinking quickly when tears blurred his vision.

  I should never have left her alone!

  He touched her neck and felt no pulse. He moved his finger close to her half-open eye, and she did not flinch. In the blood beneath her head, there was other matter; that poor young girl’s brain, so filled with fear as she approached adulthood, and he . . .

  “I let her fall,” he whispered. He touched her cheek and said he was sorry, hoping that somewhere she might hear.

  The middle-aged woman shouted something in Italian, and it was a harsh word that Hellboy knew well.

  “No,” a weak voice said, and Hellboy looked up at Carlotta’s window. Franca stood there now, looking weak and in pain, staring down at her dead cousin. “Not murder,” she said. “She fell. I saw. I saw and . . .” Hellboy saw her eyes fl
utter and he stood, ready to catch her should she fall as well. But Franca disappeared back into the room, and he heard a soothing voice trying to whisper her pain away.

  He moved back a few steps as more family gathered around the body, some of them speaking rapidly into mobile phones while others fussed about her, trying to find life where he already knew there was none.

  Someone shouted. The people parted and Adamo hobbled through, sweating, panting as his old man’s legs carried him forward. He glanced at Hellboy, but only once. When he saw the dead young girl his eyes turned fluid and he fell to his knees.

  When the first wail came, Hellboy turned away.

  CHAPTER 5

  —

  Amalfi

  —

  When she opened her eyes he was there, sitting at her bedside and looking as if he was snoozing. She watched for a while, and listened. The room was completely silent, and in the house beyond she could hear nothing; no voices, no chatter of excited children, no deeper drone of the Elders in conference.

  She turned her head slightly and looked at the window. It had been swathed in polyethylene, a rough new frame nailed into the old to hold it in place. Sniffing, she could still smell burning. She thought perhaps that smell would never leave her.

  They didn’t put me in another room, she thought. But then she knew why. Injured though she might be, she could also be partially to blame for Carlotta’s death. None of them knew what had happened, none of them had seen . . .

  When she closed her eyes she no longer saw darkness, but light, and the flicker of flames across her consciousness.

  I’ve seen that thing before...

  She opened her eyes again, and he was looking at her. He smiled.

  “How do you feel?”

  Franca tried to speak but her mouth was dry. Hellboy leaned forward, handing her a glass of water. She sipped and swallowed, blinking over the glass at him. He only watched her. He must be so full of questions, she thought, and silently thanked him for holding back.

  “Sore,” she said. “Leg hurts. But you?” She sat up, wincing but waving away his concern. “You were fighting it, tangled with it. You must be burnt?”

  “A little,” he said, looking at his left hand and patting his stomach softly. “I heal easy.”

  Franca lifted the single thin sheet and looked down at her foot.

  “Some old doctor came,” Hellboy said. “He was about a hundred and fifty. Patched you up, left some painkillers and some cream to rub in.”

  “Family doctor. He’s been on retainer to the Espositos for decades.” We’re edging around the subject, she thought, and when she glanced at Hellboy again she knew he was aware of it as well. He looked away, searching the room for something unseen.

  “They let you stay?” she asked.

  “Police want to talk to me. They’re in with Adamo and the others right now. Selecting the lining for my coffin, I guess.”

  “She jumped, Hellboy. I barely saw . . . I could hardly see. But she stood at the window, and when people came in there was shouting, some screaming, talk of fires and explosions. I tried to sit up but the pain held me down, made me feel faint. I reached out for Carlotta, but she didn’t even turn around. Didn’t seem to hear. And then she jumped.” France felt a single tear streak down her cheek, cool and lonely.

  “I’m going to find it,” he said. “Gotta speak to a friend of mine, see if she has any ideas. But I’m not leaving, Franca. Whatever the old man says, I’m going to stay until that bastard is sorted out. Carlotta’s will be the last name in that book, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” she said. But she felt weak and tired, and as sleep beckoned she was more than happy to welcome it in.

  I’m sure I’ve seen that thing before, she thought. I just have to remember where.

  The Carlotta that accompanied her down into sleep was a younger, more carefree girl, whom Franca had played with as a child in the large gardens, walked with through the sweet Amalfi streets, and talked to about their future while sitting beneath the protective spread of the largest rose bush. A girl who still knew how to laugh.

  —

  “Hey, Liz.”

  “Hellboy! Damn, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “You too.” He smiled into his cellphone, waiting for her to speak. Liz Sherman represented somewhere he felt at home, somewhere he belonged, and she was one of his closest friends. The fact that she was a member of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense and able to start fires with her mind made her all the more special.

  “So I hear they shipped you straight off to Italy!” she said. “I was hoping we could catch up after your Iceland jaunt. I’m sitting here at H.Q., twiddling my thumbs, and—”

  “Don’t twiddle too much, you’ll burn the place down.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Ha! Liz. It’s good to hear your voice.” He was sitting in La Casa Fredda’s garden, watching the sun sinking into the sea and looking out for any flame-lit regions of the city. He sighed, breathing in the stench of burning flesh. He really should take a shower soon.

  “What is it, H.B.?”

  “You know me so well.”

  “Got a bad one?”

  “Yeah, it is. I thought it was nothing at first. Young girl approaching eighteen, scared of a supposed family curse, sees shades where there are none, conspiracies in family whispers. I didn’t take her too seriously, really, and now she’d dead.”

  “Oh, no.” Liz’s voice changed little, but Hellboy knew she could empathize. She bore more than enough guilt for both of them, and though she was growing to handle it, the ghosts of her childhood would always be with her. “What happened?”

  “Some sort of fire monster came for her. I fought it off, it ran, I chased. When I came back, she’d killed herself.”

  “After you saved her?” A note of hardness there, but Hellboy had not even considered feeling angry at Carlotta.

  “She was terrified, Liz. All her months of paranoia were confirmed to her. She saw the thing injure the cousin she loved, and she must have been certain it’d be back for her.”

  “Monster made of fire . . .” she said, trailing off.

  “Yeah. You remember the Sahara?”

  “Fire dogs.”

  “Well, this thing . . . It wasn’t the same. Nowhere near. But I was just thinking . . .”

  “Just thinking that since it’s made of fire, I could help.”

  “Nah. I know you won’t have a clue. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Screw you again.”

  Hellboy laughed, and it felt good. Speaking with Liz, he was thousands of miles away back in Connecticut, not huddled down in this dusky garden waiting to talk to the police. She had a way of making his pains less heavy.

  “How did you chase it away?”

  “Threw water over it.”

  “Hmm. Figures. What did it look like?”

  “Well . . . this may sound crazy, but—”

  “H.B., I’ve known you a long time. Crazy doesn’t even begin to perturb me any more.”

  “Yeah. Well, if the thing hadn’t been made of flames, I’d have said it looked like a wolf.”

  “A wolf, like, hooowwwlll!”

  “A wolf on two legs.”

  “Werewolf.”

  Hellboy shrugged. “Teeth, claws, fur, all made of fire. White-hot eyes. But the throat, that was the freaky part. When it howled, its throat was pitch black.”

  “Dark as the void,” Liz said, in a mock-1950s horror-movie voice.

  “Actually, yeah.”

  “Creepy,” Liz said, no longer mocking. “Kate’s been researching something to do with werewolves. Black Sun prophecy, she calls it.”

  “Yeah, she’s mentioned that to me. But this is very different, Liz. This thing was made of fire.”

  “Water scared it away, though,” she said.

  “Seemed to. Looked like it hurt it, actually.”

  “Then change that big cannon of yours for a water pisto
l.”

  Hellboy chuckled, not quite dismissing the idea out of hand. “I’m gonna sniff around,” he said. “Whatever’s happening, there’re people in this family aware of it. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “You know where I am if you need anything,” Liz said.

  “Yeah, you’re on panic-dial on my cell.”

  “You need me out there, H.B.?”

  He thought about that, and the idea of having Liz here with him was comforting. Yet there was still that uncertainty about her abilities, which she was as ready to acknowledge as anyone, and a fear that the power she held could never be completely under control. Confront her with something like this, and that power might well take over.

  “Nah, not right now,” he said. “If I do, I’ll push that panic button.”

  “I think I’m going to Seattle,” she said, and he sensed the disappointment she was trying to hide.

  “Oh?”

  “Haunted sailing yacht. Tom says it smells like an insurance scam, but I’ll go check it out.”

  “Great seafood in Seattle.”

  “Don’t get fat on pasta.”

  “Your concern is noted,” Hellboy said, and he wanted to say more, tell her what a friend she was to him. Seeing that poor young girl take her own life had left him feeling maudlin.

  But he never needed to tell Liz those things, and that’s what made the two of them together so special.

  “Take it easy, H.B,” she said

  “You know me.”

  He heard her mocking laughter as she broke the connection.

  Hellboy sat there for a while, watching the city below lighting up as tourists headed out for their evening meals. Mopeds buzzed along the streets like fireflies, and out at sea, expensive yachts bobbed at their moorings.

  “Hellboy,” someone said.

  He stood and turned quickly, hand resting on his holster. Adamo stood a few paces behind him, hands crossed on a walking stick that had not been with him before. He looked like a shrunken man.

  “Mr. Esposito. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Adamo nodded, glancing past Hellboy at the view he must have seen a million times. He sighed, seemed about to say something, but then turned and walked back towards the door. “The police will see you now,” he said.